I began the day with the oriole's song
sung from the treetops,
a piercing, exuberant whistle of gladness
at the prospect of being alive and
the promise of procreation and
the glory of this moment.
And with the catbird's soft murmuring
from the back thicket, sung by
a jaunty fellow whose
quiet, if persistent,
friendly prattle
will accompany me
through my day.
And with the hummingbird's bold chatter
that warns off friend and foe alike,
whose tiny stature is
simply a disguise
for the fierce and untamable spirit
that lives within.
But it is the wood thrush,
that mystic of the woodlands,
whose lilting, numinous invitation
beckons,
and calls me into silence and
into the wildness of
wordless prayer, into
simply being with
and being in
the unseen,
always present,
Presence
of God.
